Guarding the Soldier's Secret Read Free Page B

watched together, Yancy answering Laila’s questions, talking about the ways her life was different now. She’d even probed gently, never sure how much Laila had witnessed or remembered about her mother’s murder. But Laila had never spoken of that day, and whether that was because she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, Yancy had no way of knowing.
    Their first day in Kabul, Laila had clung close to Yancy’s side, shrinking closer still at her first glimpse of the mysterious blue burqas that sprinkled the crowds even here in the modern capital city. Last night Yancy had asked her about that, wanting to know why Laila was frightened when they’d already talked about the fact that some women in Afghanistan covered themselves completely when they went out in public.
    But Laila had only shrugged and mumbled, “I’m not scared. I just don’t like them. I think they’re...creepy.”
    Today, though, she seemed to be enjoying the crowds, the bustle and noise, the tapestry of different costumes: men and boys in everything from jeans, T-shirts and Western-style jackets to the traditional loose white trousers and tunics and long chabas embroidered with intricate patterns; the turbans or flat Afghan hats, or karakul hats like the one the president wore; women and girls in conservative Western-style dresses or flowing robes and draped head scarves, and, of course, the burqas . Every direction they looked was a new feast for the eyes.
    A feast for all the senses. Though the sky overhead was the same crisp blue she recalled from previous trips to Afghanistan, here in the bazaar the air was dense with dust and exhaust, the familiar smells of spices and baking bread and overripe fruit and the musky scents of people. The noise of traffic and exotic music and voices raised in chatter or barter or a snatch of song made a tapestry of sound.
    I’ve missed this , Yancy thought.
    “What are those?” Laila pointed.
    “Hmm...looks like dates,” Yancy said.
    “Can we get some?”
    “You don’t like dates, remember?”
    “Yes, but I’ve never tasted these dates.”
    “Uh-huh.” Recognizing that her child had been bitten by the shopping bug, Yancy diplomatically steered her to another display, where large flat metal bowls held an array of grains and beans and nuts. “How about we get some of these, instead? You like pistachios, don’t you?”
    Laila’s answer was a happy gasp. She tugged at Yancy’s hand like an excited puppy while Yancy bartered with the women hovering over the display. She counted out the money, then gave the drawstring shopping bag they’d brought with them—no paper or plastic here—to Laila to hold while the shopkeeper dumped a scoopful of nuts into it.
    Laila said, “Tashakkur!” the way Yancy had taught her, in a strong, clear voice, and the woman beamed her approval and added another handful of nuts to the bag.
    They walked on, stopping to examine trinkets, discussing what gifts they should buy for Laila’s school friends back home in Virginia. Yancy fingered beautiful scarves, debating which one to buy for her clotheshorse sister, Miranda.
    The sun climbed higher and so did the temperature, and the crowds began to thin. Yancy noticed Laila’s enthusiasm seemed to be waning, as well. Her footsteps lagged as she looked around her, craning her neck, clearly searching for something and disappointed she hadn’t found it.
    “Are you getting tired, sweetie?”
    “No...” Laila lifted her shoulders in what was half sigh and half shrug. “I was just hoping...”
    Yancy’s stomach lurched. Surely, she couldn’t be hoping to see him .
    Impossible, anyway. He’s dead. He must be. And how can she even remember?
    “I thought there would be animals.”
    “Animals?” Yancy said blankly.
    Laila was watching the toe of her sandal make designs in the dusty ground. She heaved another heart-tugging sigh. “Yes, like sheep or goats. Or donkeys. I like them. They had them at the market where I used to live.” She